Empty eyes, this is the sky pooled in the basin of your irises, this is the blank face of sorrow. She is stone-made, she is heavy. She wraps her tender palms like wind, soft around the nape of your neck, plunging you beneath a silver-lined lake. In the crook of her ribs, her heart is: torn-top, drinking glass, dunk tank. Loyal as a dog at your heels, vicious too, she offers the most proud act of love; sorrow will not leave. That is worth something, worth her cold shoulder glistening in lamplight as she thumbs through your great miseries. Waving from the edge of the diving board, smiling like the preparation for a bad joke. She’s pushing those clouds into images of grievances untouchable, shapes of the people she slaughtered and replaced. Sorrow does not know how you want to be loved, she does not care. She’ll give you her interpretation, finishing your sentences with her empty eyes, gaze of the cold sun, some sort of god, my love. My love pushes me under, drags me out and closes my eyes with her fingertips.